


dear draco, pt. 2

by malfoyuh



Series: dear draco, [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Sequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-17 03:16:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 11,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29960130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/malfoyuh/pseuds/malfoyuh
Summary: sequel to dear draco, on wattpad
Relationships: Astoria Greengrass/Draco Malfoy, Draco Malfoy/Original Female Character(s)
Series: dear draco, [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2205798
Kudos: 4





	1. prologue

**_N O V E M B E R 1 9 9 9_ **

**_EIGHTEEN MONTHS AFTER THE BATTLE OF HOGWARTS_ **

Isobel had watched Draco Malfoy from a young age.

She had been so curious, it left a sour taste in her mouth. Bitter to know the inside of his mind. To know where all of his hostility came from; if he really meant the foul insults he flung across hallways to people he didn't like. If his sneers were really filled with spite and hatred. There was nobody quite so intriguing as the white-blonde boy who stalked around the Hogwarts Grounds with his head high and his lip curled, as if the entire world was against him. Which, to be fair, it probably was.

She used to watch him across the Great Hall, or from the back of a classroom. Now she watched him from across the street, half hidden by lampposts and bus stops.

Before Isobel Young and Draco Malfoy ever spoke one word to each other, she stared at him, incessantly. Continually scorned by Harry and Ron, who by their third year had reduced Draco to no more than a playground bully - she became obsessed with trying to understand him. With finding a crack in his cold surface.

Now more than ever, she wanted to understand him. It was probably, she thought, the thing she wanted most. Some people wanted money, fame, power. Success. What Isobel wanted was to understand how someone like Draco Malfoy had fallen in love with someone like her.

She rested her back against the brick wall. From behind a third floor window, fifty metres away, Draco was filling an electric kettle at his sink. This was routine for him at this time of day. A cup of tea after dinner, another around nine. The times she had stayed longer, he usually had another around eleven. Big tea drinker. She never managed to stay past lights out, because Draco tended to stay awake until ungodly hours and she couldn't risk being the only person left on the street. She couldn't let him see her.

In school - in all of her staring - she had never seen him drink tea, to her recollection. This was new.

And the longer, looser hair. That was new, too. It was nice, and, well - unexpected. The Malfoys used to be so well-groomed. Draco looked a little dishevelled these days, in a quiet, unthreatening way. He looked very different to the Draco she knew.

But she had never really known him, she reminded herself, nestling into her jacket. Her breath was visible in the cold November air. No matter how hard she had tried, he had always been so difficult to read.

No, she didn't know Draco Malfoy at all.

Draco Malfoy, as she knew him, was a horrid, arrogant, snarky git. He had tossed insults at her and friends every time the opportunity arose. He was selfish and entitled. She _hated_ him, and he hated her.

And yet... And yet.

Crumpled in her fist was a torn, yellowing piece of parchment that said something quite different.

_My dearest darling love._

_Stay a little longer._

_I'd give anything to have you back._

And the nickname. Belly. She hated that, too.

Without warning, Draco turned to face the window. Isobel cursed and looked down, pretending to pick at a loose thread in her glove. In her peripheral vision, he stopped for a moment... Then, slowly, turned back to his tea.

She blew out a sharp breath and hurried away, towards the quiet alleyway where she liked to Apparate. That was enough for tonight. She really should stay away for a while, to ease any suspicions he might have. If he realised he was being watched... Well, she didn't know what she would do then.

But then again, that was what she told herself every time. Every time she came here, she swore she wouldn't return for at least a week or two. Sometimes she even convinced herself it would be her final visit, that she would walk away and leave the elusive, confusing Draco Malfoy behind forever.

But then, she would find herself back again. Watching him. Deducing him.

No, this wouldn't be the last time.


	2. zero

There once lived a boy and a girl. They fell in love, but in a world that was very cruel.

Their world ended.

Their world ended, and it broke them. It broke each of them, in different ways.

Their world ended, but they were offered a new one.


	3. half

_My dearest darling love,_

_Should we never meet again, there are a few things I would like you to know._

_Firstly, you are the love of my life. In this life, what came before, and whatever comes next. It has always been you; it will always be you._


	4. one

**_N O V E M B E R 1 9 9 8_ **

**_SIX MONTHS AFTER THE BATTLE OF HOGWARTS_ **

Recovery did not follow a straight line; Isobel had learnt that the hard way.

A good day could follow a bad day, and a bad day could follow a good one. Sometimes she had several good days, sometimes an entire week felt miserable.

Today was a good day. Well - she suspected her standards had lowered for "good," given that she never felt particularly joyful, or excited - or whatever it was that had once made a day good. But she was out of bed, had sat in the garden for a while, and now felt hungry enough to eat a slice of toast. That was good enough.

She was home alone at the moment as her mother was out to do their weekly grocery shop. There was a small supermarket on the corner of the nearest muggle village, a twenty minute walk away. Isobel and her mother took turns to do the shop, having decided that going together would attract too much attention. She usually hated, _hated_ when it was her mother's turn to go and she had to stay at home on her own, but today she felt... Calm, in her own presence. Not jumpy, not anxious for her mother's return. Today, she was doing okay.

They had lived in this house for half a year now, having moved here after the battle. Her mother had hoped that the way the house was built - in a secluded area, surrounded by trees - would mean that their new muggle neighbours wouldn't take much notice of them. The wizarding community were to stay away from muggles to keep things safe and stable; that was the way things were. Unfortunately, the muggles seemed fundamentally curious, and they were soon getting questions about their jobs, their lives, the absence of a car in their driveway. Isobel expected the muggles probably considered them to be quite rude, because they evaded all such questions. She and her mother kept to themselves, hardly ever leaving the little countryside house.

She knew it was better this way, but she felt increasingly lonely. She had seen several muggles of her own age on her few visits to the village, and wanted desperately to make friends with them. It would be nothing like having her old friends back, but it would be someone to talk to.

The physical pain that had plagued her for the first few months had faded a bit now. It had been horrible - searing headaches and sore muscles - but it had at least been something of a distraction from the immense weight of loss that stayed with her now, constantly. With everything she did, her heart ached for the things that were gone; the things that had once existed so simply.

She hadn't seen her friends since the battle. Maybe that was the worst of it all. Not being able to see them, speak to them, hug them. Cry with them.

Not being able to hug Ginny. Maybe that was the worst part; knowing how much her friends, too, had lost. Fred. Tonks. Lupin. Their faces rotated in her nightmares like portraits, immortalized in her mind. Never to age again. She often wondered if Hermione had managed to track down her parents yet. What if she never would?

Or maybe the worst parts were the parts Isobel couldn't remember. The blur in her mind, when she tried to think back too far, or for too long. Huge chunks of her life, missing from her mind. Maybe there existed worse things, still, and she was unable to remember them.

Maybe the worst part was not being able to remember those things.

Everyday, she trudged around the countryside house with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, trying to piece together her memories. She hoped that remembering something - anything - might make this all less painful. Her mother was a Healer, which meant Isobel was lucky: Isobel had it good. It meant that anyone else in this position, who didn't have the privilege of professional help, would be in more pain. But the overwhelming feeling that something was missing followed Isobel from room to room, never leaving.

The overwhelming feeling that of all the things she couldn't remember, one of them had once been very, very important.

Her first few years at Hogwarts seemed clear enough, given that she had been so young then. The more recent years were, counterintuitively, the haziest. She remembered Dumbledore's Army, and spending sixth year at home after her father died, and having meals in the common room in seventh year, and standing up to the Carrows. There were blurry snapshots in her mind of more mundane moments: getting dressed in the dorms with Hermione, eating breakfast at the Gryffindor table. She had hoped that the rest would trickle back slowly as time passed, piece by piece until they formed a whole again. But nothing new came back to her. And her head hurt if she thought about it for too long.

She remembered the Battle of Hogwarts. Parts of it; flashes. Those parts haunted her all the time, particularly in the night. Tears, bodies, screams. That green light. It never left her. She had escaped death by the skin of her teeth; had felt it come and go. Could feel it now still, lurking over her shoulder as she spread jam onto her toast.

She shuddered. She wished her mother would come home now.

She took her breakfast to the living room and knelt backwards on the couch so that she could watch the driveway.

There was something missing. In the big blur of things she had once known, there was something important, she was sure of it. When death had brushed past -had decided to leave her be, for a while - it took something with it. It stole something from her.

She knew it sounded crazy, but she thought she might have lost a part of herself after the battle.

What she didn't know was that two hundred and twenty-three miles south east of where she sat, Draco Malfoy was staring at the ceiling of his one-bed apartment, thinking exactly the same thing.


	5. two

**_N O V E M B E R 1 9 9 8_ **

Draco Malfoy was soaked. His jumper, coat, trousers; everything was drenched through with bitterly cold rainwater.

It had been raining in London for three days now. He hadn't wanted to leave his apartment - if it was up to him, he would stay indoors permanently - but his mother had forced him out for a cup of tea at her favourite coffee shop. Now, he was climbing the stairs back to his apartment, feeling cold and frustrated, and planning on locking himself in his bedroom for as long as he possibly could.

He shoved his key into the lock of his apartment door, considering how ridiculous it was that mere bits of metal made muggles feel safe in their homes. No protection charms, just tiny, fragile locks.

He was hungry. He had declined any food and hadn't touched his tea; had left it turn cold in the cramped, dark coffee shop. Had raised his voice at his mother and stormed out.

Just as he stepped into his apartment, a door across the corridor was flung open. His heart sank.

"Hey, neighbour!"

Draco turned to face the woman, forcing a smile that felt more like a grimace. Emily - a thirty-year-old, curly-haired American woman - moved close to him and stuck out her hand. He shook it, reluctantly. "Rain catch you?" she asked.

Draco said nothing. All he wanted was to get to his room and sleep for a week.

She continued cheerfully. "I don't know how we haven't met yet. You moved in, what, two months ago?"

He gave a slight nod.

"Right. Well, I know your face, I won't lie. Not to sound creepy, but my friends and I see you through your window sometimes, when we come back from nights out. It'll be, like, three a.m. and your light is always still on." She smiled coyly. "You never sleep, huh?"

"Not much."

"Well, anyway. It's so nice to finally meet you." She leaned forward and placed a hand on his soaking wet sleeve. Draco stared at it. "Making friends can be hard sometimes, particularly with the locals, and-" She emitted a high-pitched, confused giggle as Draco shrugged off her hand to take out his wand. "Oh. What's that?"

"Obliviate," he muttered, pointing it at her. Her eyes fogged over, and he stepped into his apartment and shut the door before she could regain consciousness and see him again.

He had erased himself from Emily's memories over five times now. Each time she reintroduced herself was painful, but he had concluded that it was better to endure the same recurrent conversation than to have her think that they were friends. He shrugged off his coat and slammed his wand down on the kitchen counter, wondering if all neighbours were so nosy, or if he had drawn a short straw.

The chatter of radio hosts greeted him, sounding from the small plastic radio that sat on the windowsill. He had left the window open before he left, and now noticed a puddle on the wooden floor, where the rain had gotten in. He lived on the third floor of an apartment block in Hackney, and liked to leave the window open as much as he could. He liked the breeze, and the noise, too. He didn't like the quiet.

His apartment, he presumed, probably resembled every other one-bed in London. The kitchen and living room were in the same room, which the landlord had referred to as "modern" and "open-plan" but Draco thought was probably a way of justifying the tiny space. He spent most of his time in the small bedroom off the living area, staring at the ceiling and waiting for time to go by.

He had expected his family to resent his decision to move to London, but they had been surprisingly encouraging. They offered him a big apartment, high-quality furniture, all the rest - they had even offered a house elf. He soon realised that they thought he was trying to start over; to move to a big city, turn over a fresh leaf.

He thought they could stuff it.

He had emptied half of his Gringotts vault and exchanged it for muggle money. Then he visited the first apartment he found in a muggle newspaper and Confunded the landlord into taking six months' rent upfront. He bought a mattress and rolled it out on the floor, and decided he had no need for furniture.

He wasn't looking to start over; he just wanted to be alone. And true solitude, he decided, came not from escaping to a remote area, but from existing between thousands of people who didn't give a shit about you. True solitude came from being invisible.

He didn't want any remnant of the wizarding world to follow him here. He didn't want house elves or pointless, fancy family heirlooms. He didn't want to be stared at wherever he went; whispers of what he had done echoing behind him.

So he moved to a city so densely packed with muggles that he was unlikely to ever bump into someone who knew who he was. The London muggles were simple, grumpy, and seemed to always be in a hurry. He began to derive a delirious sense of pleasure from watching people's eyes skip over him like he didn't exist; from knowing he was completely irrelevant to their lives. He was somebody - but a nobody, to them. Just a body.

He had wanted a life with Isobel Young, but she was gone now. So he settled for invisibility instead.

He opened his fridge and stared into it. There was an old hunk of cheese, a few eggs and a single slice of pizza leftover from a takeaway he had gotten three nights ago. The top shelves were bare.

It was very strange to be entirely in charge of taking care of himself, with no house elves to do the chores he had never learnt to do. He hadn't a clue how to cook, and had never been taught even the most basic cleaning spells. He loved autonomy, but wasn't very good at it.

Despite his hunger, Draco was unwilling to leave his apartment for food. So he filled the kettle, to boil water for tea.

It was nearing 5 o'clock, and the sun was beginning to disappear over the skyline, so he walked back to the door and flipped on the light. Where he disliked the quiet, he hated the dark.

It was in the dark that he missed her most.

He felt Belly's absence wherever he went; from his bedroom to the kitchen to the shop on the corner.

When he went for tea with his mother or to a pub with his friends, it followed him everywhere.

But in the dark, he felt her absence most strongly. When all of the lights were off, and the world was quiet - that was when she really haunted him. That was when he was all too aware of the empty space beside him. That where he used to put an arm out, to wrap around her waist - now there was nothing. Just sheets. No warm, soft body. No quiet, steady breathing.

He had started leaving the lights on at night-time months ago, when he realised the problem. A few weeks later, he bought the radio, which he now left constantly plugged in. Not that he ever listened - he really couldn't give a shit about what was happening in the world, to be honest - but it helped to drown out that god awful silence.

He didn't forget that she was gone, he never would. He didn't have brief moments of forgetting and remembering. This pain was with him constantly; it never left. But in the dark and quiet, it was worse. So, if he could help it, he would never be in the dark and quiet again.

He threw his teabag into the sink, where it joined a collecting pile of other, cold teabags, and took his mug into the bedroom. He placed it on the ground and lay down on his mattress. Like every night before, and as he would for many nights after, he stared up at the ceiling, thinking that when he had lost Isobel, he had lost a part of himself, too.


	6. three

**_J U L Y 1 9 9 9_ **

On the same day that two men in robes showed up on her doorstep, Isobel found Draco Malfoy in the  _ Daily Prophet _ .

In the year that had passed since the war, her mother hadn't allowed her to order the Prophet once. She persisted that news of the wizarding world would give Isobel flashbacks; that it would trigger the trauma that the war had caused her. What Isobel needed to recover, according to her mother, was time.

But the anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts came and went, and Isobel was feeling no less isolated or upset than she had before. After several more weeks of pleading, her mother finally conceded, and poring over the paper soon became a morning ritual for Isobel. While her mother hovered around her, Isobel would spread the paper out on their kitchen table and study every last inch. Taking in every piece of information she could about a world she still pretended to exist in.

With the anniversary of the war also came an influx of letters addressed to her mother from St Mungo's hospital, where she had worked years before as a Healer. Her mother had been unnerved at first because they hadn't told anyone where they lived, and she worried that somebody might follow the owls to track down their house. She had very little trust in the world still, since the war and since Isobel's father's death, but there was a shortage of Healers at St. Mungo's, and Maggie Young had once been one of their best. They sent letter after letter, asking for her return.

Her mother was torn, Isobel could tell. Going back to work meant leaving Isobel alone everyday, and also meant re-entering the society that Maggie had lost faith in years ago. But the hospital and its patients needed her, and, to Isobel, that seemed reason enough.

While Isobel had recently been feeling a bit better, her mother was starting to look gaunt and grey. Lonely as she was, Isobel had taken up hobbies and found ways of passing the time. She had started going out into the garden more, for one; doing cartwheels in the grass and lying in the sun. She had also reintroduced herself to the piano and took pleasure in teaching herself songs, upping the level of difficulty with each new piece. Her mother, meanwhile, retreated into herself; eating little and sleeping a lot.

Her mother had used to read through the  _ Daily Prophet _ every morning before allowing Isobel to even touch it, but had lost the energy recently, and let Isobel take over and read aloud anything of note. There was little of note these days; no attacks to speak of, most escaped Death Eaters rounded up and the ones that walked free tending to keep to themselves. It was, however, always unnerving to hear about someone who had once been associated with Voldemort, which was perhaps why Maggie's entire body went still when Isobel said,

"Mum, have you heard much about the Malfoy family? Since the war, I mean?"

"No," said her mother tightly. "Why?"

Isobel pushed the paper across the table. Stretched across the third page of the  _ Daily Prophet _ was a picture of Draco Malfoy. He was at a street market, standing at a flower stall and holding a small bunch of striped carnations to his chest. Through strands of white-blond hair, he scowled at the camera.

"Do you think the flowers are for his mother, or for a girlfriend?" Isobel pulled the paper back to her, looking curiously at Draco. He looked so much older than she remembered him. "I know Pansy Parkinson had a thing for him that he never really reciprocated, but maybe he's changed his mind."

Isobel's mother gripped her coffee cup tighter.

" _ A surly, handsome and heartbroken baby Malfoy was spotted for the first time in months at a muggle market _ ," read Isobel aloud. " _ Who are the flowers for? A new love interest, perhaps?" _

"That's enough, Isobel."

"Oh come on, I'm sure he's harmless," said Isobel. She skimmed the rest of the article, but it expressed no more than Rita Skeeter's speculations of a new love interest for Draco. "I wonder why she says he's heartbroken? No more than the rest of us, surely?"

She watched Draco drop his gaze for a moment, before looking back up at the camera, his ice-grey eyes hard. Unable to stop herself, she traced a finger across his cheek. "God, he looks so sad, don't you think? It must be difficult -" She glanced up. "No interest in Draco Malfoy, Mum?"

Her mother was staring into her coffee. "I don't have much sympathy for Death Eaters, no."

Isobel felt her heart drop a little. "That's not what I meant, Mum. I hated Draco Malfoy in school, you know that. I just think he was a victim of his circumstances. We all are, I suppose."

Her mother stood up and emptied the rest of her coffee into the sink. Saying nothing, she stood there, with her back to Isobel.

Suddenly, a hard knock sounded at the door. Isobel's mother dropped her mug into the sink and it shattered. She whirled around, staring at her daughter, one hand to her chest. Breathing quickly.

Isobel let out a nervous laugh. No one had knocked since their neighbours when they had first moved in, but she didn't see it as cause for concern. "Mum, it's okay. A quick  _ Reparo  _ will fix that. I'll get the door -"

"No!"

Isobel stopped, then laughed again. "Mum, I'm perfectly capable -"

A short hallway connected the kitchen to the front door, and veered off to the side there, to the rest of the house. Maggie moved quickly to the door and peered through the side window. "It's wizards."

"Really? Do you know them?"

Looking frantic, Maggie grabbed her daughter's elbow and steered her towards the hallway. "Go to your room, Isobel. Don't come out, okay?"

Isobel shook her mother's hand off her arm. Frowning, she walked to her room and shut herself inside it, hearing the front door open as she did so.

Sitting down on the floor, Isobel pressed an ear against her bedroom door, but found that she could hear very little through it. The men stayed for ten minutes, but Isobel caught only muffled snippets: "Your unbearable loss" ... "Haven't heard anything from you" ... "Just checking in" ... "So overcrowded" ... "Even just part-time..."

And then, with her face screwed up in concentration, Isobel heard: "Please know that our thoughts are with you. To lose both a husband and a daughter is an incredible loss."

Hearing the men leave, Isobel ran to her bedroom window. Through the curtains she watched them go, their green St. Mungo's robes rippling in the breeze.

In the kitchen, Maggie Young sat back down at the table. She put her head in her hands, and wept.

She wept, because she had lied, and it was all going wrong now. Because she had acted on a selfish, desperate impulse, and hadn't thought it through.

The  _ Daily Prophet _ lay beside her, and the picture of Draco Malfoy glared up at her, still; scolding her. Telling her,  _ you haven't only ruined her life. You've ruined mine, too.  _

Maggie Young's daughter was alive, and she was the only person in the world that knew it.


	7. four

Isobel steadied herself with a hand on the wall as she walked back down the hallway. Her legs felt wobbly.

_ To lose both a husband and a daughter is a great loss. _

She remembered waking up after the war; looking up with a throbbing head and a pounding heart to see her mother.  _ You're safe now, baby. We're going to be okay now.  _ She had believed it, but for the wrong reasons.

She found her mother in the kitchen, her thin face streaked with tears.

"Mum."

Maggie's forehead furrowed, but she did not look at her daughter.

"Mum, talk to me. Please."

No response. Isobel sat down across from her. "You let everyone think I was dead, didn't you? I was unconscious and you told people I was dead." The lump in her throat grew. "And that's why we had to move house, and why we couldn't ever leave or tell anyone we were here."

Her mother said nothing, so Isobel went on. "All this time, I thought it was all for our health - I thought I wasn't allowed to see my friends, because being alone would help me heal. But they think I'm gone?" Her voice cracked. "Ginny, Neville, Luna - is that what they think?"

Her mother finally looked up. "I'm sorry, Isobel."

"Did you think you could keep me here forever? Did you think that would help me? Mum, I've been so  _ lonely _ ." Tears welled in her mother's eyes; Isobel looked away scornfully. "I need some air."

She pushed open the back door, stomping into the garden. She paced back and forth there, trying to process it all. In all of the time that had passed since the war, nothing had been what she had thought it was. Her friends had thought her dead for an entire  _ year  _ now - they had grieved her and processed her passing. They might even have moved on with their lives: gone back to school, or started up jobs. And all the while she had been here, doing absolutely nothing with herself.

The lump in her throat was growing again, so she stopped and bit her lip, hard. She had thought that this was all normal. That it was normal to take time off to heal; that she would everyone she knew again soon. Over the last year, her mother had become her best friend. How long had she planned to continue lying?

The door creaked behind her. Her mother moved slowly towards her, wringing her hands. Isobel turned away.

Maggie spoke timidly. "Isobel, you need to understand. When the war ended... It wasn't immediately clear that things might be safe again. So many Death Eaters were still alive - nobody was sure that they wouldn't revolt. And I had lost your father, and for a moment I thought I might lose you, too - and I couldn't -" Maggie broke off. "I just couldn't handle that. I acted selfishly, yes - but at the time, it really seemed to be in your best interest -"

"My best interest?" Isobel repeated. "Mum, you took my  _ life _ from me."

"You needed to heal," Maggie pressed. "You needed time, and for months you were so weak, there was no question of sending you back to the wizarding world, and there were Death Eaters still on the loose -"

"But I could have healed and done all that without having to convince everyone I was dead!" She rounded on her mother. "I could have just - stayed at home, like a normal person, in our old house; I could have stayed in contact with my friends -"

"No, you couldn't." Maggie shook her head. "That wouldn't have worked. People would have gone looking for you; there were people that didn't want you alive, they would have come for you -"

"That's paranoia, Mum. No one would have come for me."

"Isobel, I need you to believe me," said Maggie. "What I did was impulsive, yes, but all of this has only ever been to keep you safe."

"All of this -" spat Isobel, "has been for  _ you.  _ It hasn't been for me. It's been so that you can keep some  _ sick  _ control over me."

Her mother had always been petite, but now, looked smaller than ever. Her eyes had filled with tears again: Isobel felt a stab of guilt.

"I'm not trying to excuse my actions," said Maggie, softly. "I'm only trying to explain them. I'm trying to make you understand. Given how much danger you were in - at the time, it seemed right."

"Well, I'm sure my friends' parents didn't fake their children's deaths," retorted Isobel, "and I wasn't in any more danger than they were -"

"Yes, you were."

"What does that mean?"

Maggie shook her head again. She was beginning to look very tired. "No - I shouldn't have said that."

" _ Mum _ ," Isobel pleaded. "How could that be true? How could I possibly have been a target?"

Maggie was pale. "Please, just trust me. You were in so much danger, and the danger didn't stop when the war ended. I was trying to save you... Maybe I'll tell you, one day, and then you'll understand. But not now."

Isobel flung herself away, glaring out across the garden; a scream building inside of her. "How can you take everything from me, but you can't tell me why it was so necessary?"

Her mother said nothing. When Isobel looked back, Maggie was on her knees, doubled over in the grass.

Isobel rushed to her. "Mum?" When Maggie didn't reply, Isobel knelt beside her. She took her mother's pale face into her hands and said, urgently, " _ Mum. _ "

"I'm sorry." Maggie looked back at her, blinking slowly. "Dizzy. I need to lie down."

Isobel guided one of her mother's arms around her shoulders and they stood awkwardly. They walked slowly; heavily to her mother's bedroom, where Isobel helped her into bed. Then she headed back to the kitchen and collapsed into a chair. She sat there for hours; thoughts and questions circling around her.

That night, she pulled her own duvet over her and wrapped her arms around her knees. She cried in breathless, gulping sobs, wishing that the world might be a little less cruel.

-

Not one of the Malfoy family had served more than a month in Azkaban after the war.

Lucius had been imprisoned almost immediately, but haggled his release by providing information about other Death Eaters who had escaped. Because of their abandonment of Voldemort halfway through the battle, Narcissa's outright betrayal, and Draco's young age, all three were pardoned of their crimes and allowed to walk free. The conclusion was that the Malfoys were no longer dangerous: they no longer had any interest in playing for Voldemort's side.

The Ministry made this decision in the knowledge that given all of the Malfoys' wrongdoings over the past two decades, they would never really be free, and the public would make sure to let them know it. The three Malfoys hardly ever went out, and when they did, were scorned and ridiculed. Where there used to lie fear in the faces of passersby, now was a confident, unabashed hatred. Whenever they set foot in any wizarding community, glares and whispers followed their path. So, for a long time Lucius and Narcissa kept to themselves; quietly trying to find their feet in a community where they were no longer welcome.

Immediately after the war, Draco had shut himself in his room. He didn't sleep, didn't eat; just lay in bed. Days, maybe weeks went by before Narcissa came in and tried to speak to him. For the first time in his life, he screamed at her. He locked her out, and soaked his pillow in tears.

Outside his door, there were trials and arrests; friends and family members getting life sentences. Draco didn't know the first thing about who escaped and who was sent to trial. To him, it made no difference. His father went to and from Azkaban, and he didn't bat an eyelid. Nothing mattered now, in a world where Isobel didn't exist.

Several more weeks went by and Narcissa's appearances became more regular. She brought him meals, and sometimes sat and stroked his back for a while. She begged him to let her open the blinds, open the windows, tidy up a little, but on any such mention he pulled a pillow over his head and told her to leave.

Evidence of Belly still lay around his room in variations: a jumper tossed over a chair, a few hair ties on the windowsill. Beside his bed sat the perfume she had used religiously. He was careful not to move these items, hoping to keep them just as they were. That way, Belly had been the last person to touch them. They were positioned how they were because she had placed them that way. He liked that.

On the day of his trial, Draco pulled off the sweaty t-shirt he had worn for a week, and changed into the formal clothes his mother had ironed and laid out for him, considering for the first time the utter pointlessness of formal wear.

The trial lasted an entire day. He mumbled "yes" and "no" answers to the repetitive questions thrown at him. Though Draco didn't care much about the outcome of his trial, he realised from its beginning that the Ministry had no intention of convicting him, but rather, wanted information that could help them in whatever work they were doing next. They asked about his fellow Death Eaters; his school friends; his family. What spells he had learnt from Voldemort and what dark magic he had performed. He stared back at them groggily, wondering at the alarming amount of energy they all seemed to have. He felt their disappointed eyes on him as he left, feeling that he had just wasted a day of their time. He returned to Malfoy Manor with the intention of dropping into bed for another week, at the least.

But when Draco got back to his room, it had been entirely cleaned out. The furniture was neat and tidy, and smelt overwhelmingly sterile. The windows were thrown open, allowing a fierce wind to blow in. And everything that had once belonged to Belly - every piece that Draco had left of her - was gone.

That was the second time that Draco screamed at his mother. He used a packing charm to stuff his possessions into a trunk and spent the night on a couch downstairs. He decided to move to London as soon as he could.

Upon leaving his room and casting a quick glance back at it, for the sake of nostalgia - Draco noticed something white and very small lying beneath his bed. It was a tiny flower - a snowdrop - that Belly had once tucked behind his ear, on a day at the Great Lake. He had preserved it afterwards with a drying spell, but had soon tossed it into his trunk, not thinking much of it.

Tears stung Draco's eyes. He tucked the snowdrop into the pocket of his coat, and closed the door of his room. He left the house then, and didn't look back. There was no plan: he didn't know what he was doing, or for how long he planned to go. All that he knew was that if he could help it, he wouldn't return to Malfoy Manor for a very, very long time.


	8. five

Draco was staring at the sky. He had been standing there in his bedroom, staring, for at least thirty minutes now. His forearms were starting to cramp from where his hands rested against the windowsill.

He sighed heavily, and moved to lie down on his bed. He decided to count to one hundred before he would allow himself to look at the sky again.

He had recently gone furniture shopping, so his room was fuller than he had become used to. He had given himself one day to expend his energy: one day to get everything he needed, before he was allowed to shut himself in here again. His haul had included a bed frame, two nightstands and a couch for the living room. He had thrown in several desk lamps too, and liked to leave them all switched on, along with the overhead lighting.

He was quite impressed with himself, to be honest. He didn't have much use for material objects - he never really left his head - but at least his apartment actually looked like someone lived in it now. It looked grown up. Sometimes, he would imagine Belly beside him, head nestled into his neck, one arm across his chest. He liked to imagine it was their apartment, not just his.

When he wasn't living in a world of daydreams, or otherwise feeling sorry for himself, he was overwhelmed with a restless anger.

He was angry at the cards the world had played him; at the life he had ended up with. He was angry at himself - furious - for being so senseless to have left Isobel's side in the war. He was angry at his younger self, too, for forcing something that had always been wrong. If he'd never spoken to her - if he had ignored the constant, overwhelming urges he'd always had to talk to her, to annoy her, to get her attention... If he had never fallen in love with her, and she with him, she might still be alive.

Mostly, right now, he was angry at his mother, who had decided that one year was time enough to move on, and was now trying to organise his marriage to another girl. Was forcing him to meet her, soon. And to buy her stupid flowers that he didn't have a clue about.

He didn't do anything with this anger, of course. Just lay there and let it brew.

A knock on his door pulled him out of his thoughts. "Come in," he said loudly, not moving. The only person that ever knocked on his door was Blaise, who liked to show up without warning every few weeks or so. Most of Draco's friends from school had distanced themselves from him a bit. They seemed to feel uneasy around him, now that he wasn't wearing a mask of snark and contempt. But Blaise had shown an unexpected compassion to Draco's situation, and, somewhat forcefully, had made it his mission to ensure Draco didn't spend  _ all  _ of his time lying in bed.

"Freezing in here," called Blaise, in lieu of a greeting. His footsteps sounded across the living area. "Can I close a window?"

"No," mumbled Draco. But Blaise seemed either not to hear him, or to ignore him, because the sound came of a window clicking shut. The London bumble dimmed to a faint hum.

"Well." Blaise appeared at the door frame. "How are you? Bright in here, mate. Christ." Squinting, he flicked off the lamp closest to him. "Most depressed people like the dark, you know." He wrinkled his nose. "And what is that smell? It's like - burnt sugar -"

Draco rolled his eyes. On the nightstand beside him sat a pink, glass bottle - Isobel's perfume. He motioned towards it. "I think it's caramel."

"Why do you have that?" asked Blaise - then his expression fell. "It was hers?"

Draco lay back, saying nothing. He quite liked the perfume, actually - it wasn't sickly sweet, but a deep, kind of musky smell. Although, he supposed, it could have smelt absolutely terrible and he would still spray it all over his room.

"Sorry, mate," said Blaise. "It's, uh - it's not that bad." He looked pained. "Sweet that you still have it."

"This exact bottle wasn't hers," said Draco gruffly. "Just - she always used that. So I bought one." He looked at Blaise defiantly, daring him to laugh, but Blaise shrugged. Draco hadn't bought just one: there were two more in his wardrobe. He had only recently realised that the bottle of perfume Belly had used probably wasn't the only one that existed. He had found the perfume in a tiny, dusty fragrance shop that stood in a corner of Diagon Alley, and slammed three bottles on the counter, leaving the cashier looking vaguely frightened. It smelt like her. He didn't care what Blaise thought of it.

"The lights are a bit much," said Blaise. "Don't you feel - I don't know, overwhelmed?"

"My senses feel overpowered," said Draco, "if that's what you mean."

"And you like that?"

Draco nodded.

Blaise stared. "Like, it makes you forget? Because if you wanted to forget, you could just get drunk, like a normal person. Or, well, I have access to -"

Draco shook his head. Fuck that. He didn't want to forget, he just wanted it to feel all a little less. He wanted the weight of it all to be a little less heavy, but he didn't want to  _ forget  _ her, for heaven's sake. Also, he had tried alcohol. The results hadn't been good. He had taught himself to drink tea instead, and probably drank an unhealthy amount of it now. It was safer than alcohol.

"Christ," said Blaise again. "I would laugh if this wasn't so pitiful."

Draco usually liked Blaise's company - he was the one person, except for his mother, that didn't hate leaving his apartment for. But he didn't like when Blaise showed up like this. It made him feel too seen for his liking.

Blaise leaned back against the wardrobe. He said, gently, "Young wouldn't have wanted you to be like this, mate. She wouldn't have wanted you to be so... Hung up. You're withering away, Malfoy."

Hearing other people speak Isobel's name had used to rile Draco up. But he was okay now; he was learning. "Well," he said. "My mother is already planning my wedding to someone else. So I suppose I can't lock myself up much longer."

Blaise looked away. "Yes, I suppose not."

Draco sat up. Only recently had the thought occurred to him that it might actually be rude to remain in bed when he had guests over. So he moved to the edge of the mattress, and leaned his elbows on his knees. "How's work?"

Blaise made a face. He had recently secured a very junior position somewhere in the Ministry's security department. Draco couldn't quite remember the details. "It's fine," said Blaise. "A lot of reading, not much doing. A lot of boring old men. Anyway -" he grinned. "The reason for my visit is to check in on your flower hunt. How did it go?"

Draco frowned. "My what?"

"You didn't know how to buy flowers... For Daphne's sister?"

"Oh, yes," said Draco. His mother had given him strict instructions to buy flowers for Astoria Greengrass, to hand to her on their entirely orchestrated, inorganic date. He pushed himself off the bed. "I'll show you." Blaise followed him across the living room and into the kitchen area, where Draco pointed at the carnations he had bought. They were lying horizontally in the sink, looking a bit wilted. "They're alright, aren't they?"

Blaise blew out a hard breath, which turned into a loud, long laugh. He slapped a hand on the counter. " _ Mate.  _ I know you don't have any interest in the girl, but put them in some water, at least."

Draco frowned. "They're in the sink. I didn't have a vase."

Still chuckling, Blaise took a glass from Draco's cupboard and used an enlarging charm to make it vase-sized. He filled the glass with water, used a severing charm to cut the ends of the ends of the flowers and plopped them into the glass. He grinned again. "Not that difficult."

Draco offered a small smile in return. He supposed the flowers had been on the rough side, but hadn't expected Astoria to expect too much from him, given that they didn't actually know one another. The whole thing - having to meet her, talk to her, go on a date with someone that wasn't Isobel - felt a bit overwhelming, to be honest. It all seemed so soon. Apart from the tiny snowdrop that sat on his windowsill, flowers weren't really the first thing on his mind.

As if he had sensed this, Blaise put a hand on Draco's shoulder. "You don't have to sweep her off her feet, Malfoy. Just be nice, okay?"

Draco nodded curtly.

"Right," said Blaise. "Well, I'd better be off, I'm seeing my mother for dinner.  _ She's  _ getting lilies - impeccably cared for, I'll have you know."

Draco rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah."

As Blaise left, he turned to re-open the window. Then he placed two hands on the frame and leaned on it, to stare up at the sky again.

Narcissa had first mentioned Astoria Greengrass in the November that followed the war - not much longer than six months' after Isobel's death. She had lured him in for tea before springing the topic on him. He had gotten upset, stormed out of the shop, and ignored her for a full month. But in the past few weeks, she had gradually been bringing up the topic again. It would be good for him, she said, to get to know someone new. To realize that Isobel Young hadn't been the only good thing in the world. Besides, she said, everyone else his age was finding a partner now. The wizarding community was small. If he didn't find someone now, he never would.

She wasn't wrong there - alarmingly, a lot of people his age  _ were  _ starting to talk of marriage. Even Blaise was getting serious with a French girl from Beauxbatons. But what Narcissa had wrong was that Draco didn't care if he never found anyone. He had been alone for most of his life, and was perfectly fine doing it all again.

He narrowed his eyes at the sky, looking for movement. Any small, moving thing that might signal an approaching owl. Ginny Weasley, he decided, was a slow replier.


	9. six

Draco had learnt to like the summer.

He had been homeschooled as a child, by a weedy tutor with wire glasses and a palpable fear of Draco's parents. He had sat with the tutor for six hours a day, five times a week - going over and over all of the different lessons that wizarding children had to learn. Despite learning alone, Draco still had the same academic structure as other children, which in summer was a two-month holiday. Two months a year spent alone, wandering around the Manor by himself.

It wasn't that he didn't like the heat, or the long, dry days. It was the unending circle of having nothing to do and no one to talk to. His parents had spoiled him, he knew that. But they had spoiled him with gifts, and flattery, and a false sense of self-importance. They hadn't spoiled him with their time. Or with companionship, or affection.

Being alone was something he had come to like. He had learnt, over time, how to make the most of summer days, if they were spent in only his own company. He became accustomed to spending hours sitting on top of the fountain in the garden, or by the window in his bedroom, staring out at the fields beyond.

Now, he was not only good at being alone, but he enjoyed it. He relished in being completely submersed in his own thoughts, his own company. He was good at being alone, because his parents had taught him to be. Which was why he found it ironic that even now he had moved out, they were still finding ways to control his time. That they were fine with him being alone, but only on their terms. That they could still force him to go for tea, to visit family, and now, to go on a date with a girl he had never even met.

He had thought that the strange relationship he had with his parents would pass with the end of childhood dependency: that when he stopped living under their roof, he would finally be free from their control and their values.

Clearly not.

He had been given clear instructions to dress nicely for the date. He had put on a smart pair of trousers and a grey shirt, which he rolled up to his forearms for practicality's sake. He was clutching a mug of camomile tea, his fingers wrapped around the hot ceramic. Heart beating fast, he was staring out of his window into the sky beyond. Still.

Because he had five minutes to go until his mother showed up, and a letter from Ginny Weasley was yet to arrive.

A week ago, when his mother had set a date for him to meet Astoria, he had written to Ginny to ask for a picture of Isobel. He had only had two or three pictures himself, and they had disappeared with the rest of Belly's possessions on the day of his trial - when his mother had "cleaned up." But he was sure that the Weasley girl would have one, and if not she, then one of Belly's other Gryffindor friends. It was something to do with ego that he hadn't asked sooner.

It had taken him five drafts to whittle down the letter to something suitably polite - for one thing, forcing himself to use Ginny and her brother's first names rather than one of the more creative nicknames he had adorned them with in school. He had hoped this civility would work in his favour, but Ginny was taking her time getting back to him, so he didn't know. It was possible she felt angry at him, he thought; blamed him for Belly's death. Maybe all of her other friends hated him too, now more than ever.

Then - with a yelp - he threw his mug into the sink and slammed open the window. As if on command, an owl was sweeping down in the direction of his apartment. He stretched out an arm to grab an envelope from the bird's foot - and sure enough, his name was written in a loopy scrawl that he didn't recognise.

He ripped open the envelope and skimmed the letter.

_ Hi Malfoy, _

_ I could only find a few pictures of Isobel, but I thought you'd like this one best. It was taken in October of seventh year. She looks happy, and was happy for a moment, even though it was a miserable time. What I remember most clearly of seventh-year Isobel was her insistence on being "over" you. And yet, she stared at you pretty much the entire time. _

_ You know that neither I nor the rest of Isobel's friends ever showed much approval of your relationship. I want to apologise for that. Your time together was short and I feel awful that I might possibly have played a role in limiting it further. Not to give myself too much credit - you were both always insufferably stubborn - but regardless, I'm sorry. _

_ I really hope you are doing well. I miss her too, you know. _

_ Ginny. _

Draco tossed the letter aside. Then, with trembling hands, he slid a photograph from the envelope.

Belly was sitting in between Neville Longbottom and Luna Lovegood. They were in front of a fire, in what he vaguely recognised as the Gryffindor common room. All three were laughing, tugging a box of cornflakes between one another.

A knock sounded on the door, and Narcissa's voice came from behind it. "Draco, darling."

Draco stayed where he was. He carefully tore Longbottom and Lovegood from the sides of the picture, until it was just Belly left. She looked at the camera then, and her smile grew. Mischievous. The fire reflected in her eyes. Her face had haunted him for over a year now, but that was nothing compared to seeing her like this, her actual features, smiling at the camera as she used to smile at him.

Narcissa knocked again. " _ Draco. _ "

"Coming, mother," he called, but didn't move.

"Draco, I won't let you hide from this. I don't want to use  _ Alohamora  _ in a muggle residence, but if you're going to refuse to co-operate -" Narcissa's voice stopped. Then came a nervous, "Oh. Hello."

Draco cursed. He tucked the photograph into the pocket of his trousers and strode to the door. Flung it open to come face to face with his mother and Emily, his neighbour.

"Hello," chirped Emily. "It's so nice to finally meet you."

Draco stuck an arm out to usher his mother into his apartment. He tossed an  _ Obliviate  _ back at Emily, and shut the door behind him.

His mother looked at him, wide-eyed. "Draco, I don't think that's legal." Draco said nothing, and Narcissa cleared her throat. She was dressed for the occasion, her usual casual black dress upgraded to a flouncier, lace-trimmed one. As if she was the one going on a date. "Right, well. You've dressed suitably. You'll need something warm."

"It's summer," said Draco. "I thought we were going for afternoon tea."

"Change of plan," said Narcissa briskly. "The two of you are going for a walk at St. James' park. We thought it might be more casual, less overwhelming for the both of you. And it's cool out today."

Draco groaned. The plan had been that they - he, Astoria and all of their parents - go for afternoon tea, somewhere fancy. He had been banking on the ability to sit in a corner and say little. "Who's we?"

Narcissa gave him a pointed look. "Astoria's mother and I."

"Right," he said. "The matchmakers."

Noticing a jumper of Draco's hanging on the back of his door, Narcissa took it and handed it to him. "Draco, I don't want to squabble about this."

"Then don't make me go," mumbled Draco, but he didn't mean it, really. He was doing it for them, yes, but he was still choosing to do it. His mother knew how he felt about it.

He locked his door from the inside, and Narcissa took his hand. She did not look at him, but she gave his hand a small, gentle squeeze. Draco understood.

Together they Apparated to Diagon Alley, where they were to meet the Greengrass family.

Arriving in a wizarding community felt like shedding an invisibility cloak. It almost was that, in a literal sense, and as they appeared in Diagon Alley, Draco felt prying eyes turn towards him and his mother.

Narcissa smoothed out her dress and looked around for the Greengrasses, ignoring their onlookers. Draco felt vaguely amused to see nerves in her expression. What was she afraid of? That the Greengrass family wouldn't like them? Or that he would embarrass her?

"Oh, there they are," she said. She stood a little straighter, and shot a tight-lipped smile over Draco's shoulder.

Draco sighed heavily and turned to face Astoria and her parents. They were approaching across the cobblestone pavement, looking just as apprehensive as he felt.

With Isobel's photograph in one trouser pocket and her snowdrop in the other, he shook Astoria Greengrass' hand. Her eyes were light where Isobel's were dark: her hair was brown where Isobel's was fair. And she seemed, like Draco, not all too happy to be there.

He and his mother exchanged pleasantries with the Greengrass family. The weather, the news, their jobs, their lives. The upcoming turn of the century. He and Astoria left to make their way to St. James' park, where they would walk slow, long loops around the green, making small talk and getting to know each other. Standing far enough apart to be strangers, but close enough to be friends.

And he would find, to his surprise, that he quite enjoyed her company.

She would tell him she was sorry he lost his girlfriend in the war, and place a consoling hand on his arm. And he would not feel discomforted by it.

He would find comfort in her anger at the world, in the opinions she had that his parents would scorn. There were thoughts he had had once in his life and never dared to turn his mind to again, and here she was, voicing them aloud.  _ Blood purity is a construct built from fear and pretension. It is inhumane and sadistic to choose status over justice. Arranged marriage between purebloods is outdated, yet here we are. _

And between her controversial opinions, he would find kindness, compassion and understanding.

He would be surprised by how similar their lives were - their upbringing and their current circumstances - after having, for so long, felt so alone.

And on their return to Diagon Alley, she would make a snide remark about pureblood constructs, that would cause the corners of his mother's mouth to turn down, and his to turn up.

That night, he would sink into his bed, feeling intensely relieved.

Astoria Greengrass was nothing like the pureblood snobbery he had known his entire life. She was bitter and smart and very  _ angry.  _ And it was refreshing.

He would never fall in love with her, this he knew. But it wouldn't be all that bad to have another friend.


	10. seven

**_S E P T E M B E R 1 9 9 9_ **

The first day her mother went back to work, Isobel visited Sandhaven Beach.

The next, she visited Scarborough. A little further away, and a little more to see.

The day after that, her mother worked a twelve-hour shift, so Isobel had more time. She Apparated to Manchester, and walked around the city there for a while, visiting museums and cathedrals. She bought ice cream from a market stall and sat with it on the steps of an art gallery, watching the crowds of muggles pass her by. Then she Apparated to Liverpool, and watched the sun go down from a white, sandy beach.

She visited many places, but decided she liked beaches the best. There was something enchanting about standing at the edge of the water with her toes curling into the sand, waves drifting back and forth around her ankles. Staring out at the vast expanse of ocean. Nobody knew much about her, anymore, but staring out at a world so big, that didn't seem to matter. The world was big enough to hold a life for her, somewhere, though she didn't know the details of that life quite yet.

She would leave the house soon after after her mother went to work each day, to buy herself as much time as she could get. When she returned from her explorations, she would change into her sweatpants, curl up with a book on the couch, and pretend she had been there all day long.

The morning of Maggie's first shift at St. Mungo's, she had sat Isobel down at the kitchen table.

"Don't leave the house. Please."

Isobel had looked into her mother's pleading eyes, and lied. "I won't."

"And don't take off your necklace. Not under any circumstance, okay?"

"I won't," Isobel had replied, closing her fingers around the silver star at her neck. That part, at least, wasn't a lie.

But she had left the house. She had gone to many different places, and soaked in each one. Relished in the crowds drifting by, the people, the architure, the landscapes. So many new things to see; so much that she had missed out on for so long.

She had gone to many places, but not enough. She wanted to go further.

Today though, she was going as far as her mother's room, for the first time since she had tucked her into bed after finding out what she had done. She was sacrificing another trip to Scarborough today, to search for Floo powder.

Her mother was much better at Apparating than Isobel was, and had no problem Apparating back and forth to London everyday for work. But Isobel had learnt to Apparate at sixteen, and was not yet very good. Apparating long distances was tricky, and she could think of few things more terrifying than getting splinched while alone. She could Apparate to Manchester, but could make herself go no further.

Isobel's mother had told her that she kept no Floo Powder in the house. But Maggie was a distrustful, fearful woman. Her fear of war and Death Eaters pervaded into every aspect of their lives, and Isobel could not conceive that Maggie had no preplanned escape route from the house, should some unthinkable emergency happen. They had kept plenty of Floo Powder in their old house, had used it to travel everywhere, and she didn't believe her mother would have so carelessly thrown it all away, to rely on Apparition forever. So, as Maggie left for St. Mungo's, Isobel snuck into her bedroom to look for the green powder.

Maggie had given Isobel the larger of the two bedrooms in the house. Furniture crowded Maggie's room, and Isobel had to squeeze between the wardrobe and the edge of the bed to get to a small desk in the corner. This was where she would start - carefully opening each desk drawer, lifting Maggie's documents, books and notebooks; all so deliberately gently that there would be no sign she had ever been there.

Secrecy had twisted its way into Isobel's relationship with her mother, for now. Her mother was sensitive; fragile after the war. Something had broken in her, too, when Isobel had been attacked in the battle - or perhaps far before, when her father had died. In the last few months, things had been tense between them. Isobel didn't know how to forgive an act that was so awful, but came from a place of such abundant love - and didn't know how to fix it, either. She wasn't yet sure how to undo her mother's actions: how to get off the path her mother had chosen for her. But for now, she could leave the house, she could explore, after having been inside for so long. She could find a taste of freedom without upsetting her mother, or getting her in trouble. So if secrecy was what it would take, that was how it would be.

There was no Floo Powder in the drawers of Maggie's desk, and Isobel was beginning to get restless. It was possible her mother  _ had  _ just thrown it all out, in a moment of panic, but she didn't want to believe that yet.

There was nothing in Maggie's nightstand but a picture of the two of them and her father; taken years before at a restaurant in France. All three of them looked sunkissed, happy and healthy. Isobel's cheek pressed into her mother's shoulder, no secrets between them.

Isobel set the picture down and moved to the wardrobe: a very tall, wooden thing, and her last resort. With a deep breath, she pulled the door open. She combed through cardigans, shirts, jumpers . . . And at last, with her hand reaching high to the top shelf, standing on the tips of her toes, her fingers brushed against glass. She stretched further, but her hand knocked the jar away.

Isobel cursed under her breath. Taking her wand from the waist of her sweatpants, she whispered, " _ Accio  _ Floo Powder." But nothing happened, and Isobel almost laughed - her mother must have put a counter-spell on the jar, for fear of Isobel trying to summon it. As she was doing now.

She grabbed the chair from the desk and dragged it to the wardrobe. Clambered onto it to see - finally - the bright green powder, staring back at her.

But not just that.

Behind the jar of Floo Powder lay an old, folded piece of parchment. Just those two things, sitting there, waiting for Isobel to find them. No concealment charms, just a high shelf.

She hesitated for only a fraction of a second, not wanting to intrude on anything that might be personal to her mother. But, she supposed, her mother had stolen Isobel's personal life: surely Isobel was entitled to some intrusion.

Later, she would wonder what would have happened if she had never unfolded the parchment.

She would wonder at what point she realised that the writing was a letter, and that the letter was addressed to her.

She would wonder at what point she noticed that it was signed by Draco Malfoy.

Curiosity turned to confusion, to anger, to fear. Heart thudding, she read over it once, then once again. Then she climbed down from the chair, sat on her mother's bed, and read it a third time.

A letter so full of heartbreak; so sorrowful - yet so inconceivable. 

Draco Malfoy, who had been her friends' sworn enemy since day one.

Draco Malfoy, who had heaped scorn and insults and ridicule onto all of them, at every given chance.

Draco Malfoy, who had been a  _ Death Eater. _

She took a breath, and moved her mother's chair back to her desk. Placed it carefully there, so that it looked just as it had when Isobel had walked in. She shut the door of the wardrobe, closed her hand around the Floo Powder, and made her way to the fireplace. And prayed to God that her mother had connected their house to the Floo Network.


End file.
